


Through The Wilderness

by KelpietheThundergod



Series: The Beast And The Burden [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s09e16 Blade Runners, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Misunderstandings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 09, Vomiting, selective/trauma induced mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wakes up again.</p><p>He blinks against the blue sky. The sun has moved, but is not yet down. It must be just past noon. His right arm is absolutely useless, and his legs are only slightly better when he staggers his way to standing. He looks down on himself. His clothes have returned to – well, whatever their colors were before he was forced to live in a hole for hell knows how long. He shivers at the memory of his prison, and pushes the thought back. But if his clothes have changed again, that means the spells must have – he turns around and freezes.</p><p>At his back is a gigantic building. No windows, no doors. A least none to walk or see in or out of. It's made of red brick, and has rows and rows of fake windows that reflect nothing but the blue sky back at him. Looking at it makes him feel ill and dizzy. </p><p>Dean turns back around to where the body of Magnus still lies. The two teeth – the two vampires that had been with them are gone. He guesses the spells controlling them broke too. When he steps closer to the body though, he sees that the head has been torn off, messily. Dean is certain he didn't do that. He supposes he wasn't the only one yearning to walk free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through The Wilderness

 

 

 

 

**_through the wilderness_ **

 

_this path of stone_

_it runs across an empty land_

_you can_

 

_hide and crawl_

_but never swallow salt, not when you're_

_homeward bound_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean wakes up again.

He blinks against the blue sky. The sun has moved, but is not yet down. It must be just past noon. His right arm is absolutely useless, and his legs are only slightly better when he staggers his way to standing. He looks down on himself. His clothes have returned to – well, whatever their colors were before he was forced to live in a hole for hell knows how long. He shivers at the memory of his prison, and pushes the thought back. But if his clothes have changed again, that means the spells must have – he turns around and freezes. At his back is a gigantic building. No windows, no doors. A least none to walk or see in or out of. It's made of red brick, and has rows and rows of fake windows that reflect nothing but the blue sky back at him. Looking at it makes him feel ill and dizzy. Dean turns back around to where the body of Magnus still lies. The two teeth – the two vampires that had been with them are gone. He guesses the spells controlling them broke too. When he steps closer to the body though, he sees that the head has been torn off, messily. Dean is certain he didn't do that. He supposes he wasn't the only one yearning to walk free.

He grimaces in disgust, but searches the body for anything that might be of use to him anyway. He finds nothing but his gun. He almost wipes it down against his jeans, then remembers how that's a really bad idea. He turns back towards the fortress. If he could find an entrance, if there even is one in the absence of the spells, he might find something to help him there. But the idea of even going anywhere near it is too much.

The memories of all that has happened, of the _before,_ of everything Dean's felt, it's all there nudging at the edges of his mind. Dean has to move. If he starts to think, to let himself remember, he isn't sure he could get up again.

He picks up the two halves of the broken Blade, stuffs them in the pocket of his jeans, and begins to walk.

>

He follows the road. But he stays out of sight. The cars, the noise. The people. They freak him out. In some part of his mind, Dean knows it's not logical. That he needs a car, needs directions. He's desperately thirsty, too. His arm might actually be broken. But every time a truck roars by, he flinches. He stumbles and limps through the bushes at the side of the road instead, and every crack of a twig broken under his boots makes him tense. But it's better than the rush and roar of the cars, the openness of the road that makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. When buildings or gas stations line the road, he detours around them, makes his way through the fields. Their wide open emptiness make his skin crawl in anxiety, like he's being stared at by invisible eyes.

Distantly, he thinks he's shivering. It must be cold. His throat is parched though, drier than the dusty ground he's stumbling over. His vision is swimming, and his right arm that he's holding close to his chest is at times numb, other times like it's filled with biting teeth. He tries to listen to his own breathing, to just concentrate on that. Once, a swarm of white birds flies up from one of the fields, and he squints against the sun and watches them, feels a bit lighter around his heart for a moment.

Dean's trudging through the bare area behind another gas station when he becomes aware of someone watching him. His heart at once launches into panic mode, and shivers race up and down his back. He looks around frantically, and then freezes when he sees a man standing just a few feet away from him, beside a couple of dumpsters. He's staring at Dean with wide eyes. His face looks hollow and he's very thin.

“Hey man,” he starts, but then stops and holds his hands up when Dean recoils and stumbles back, shoulders hunched and breathing heavily in fear. “It's okay, it's okay. You just, you ain't look so good. Here – ”

The man reaches into a black plastic bag, then holds something out to him. Dean stares at it. It shines and sparkles in the sun. A water bottle.

He wants it. But getting it would mean getting closer to the man. And the man is still holding the bottle in his hand. Dean doesn't trust things that are held out for him to take from someone else's hands. The man jiggles the bottle, and Dean flinches again, gaze flickering between the man's face and the water bottle, unsure whether to flee or to wait. Finally, the man sighs. He crouches down, then rolls the bottle towards Dean. The ground is uneven and dirty, and the bottle only rolls a few inches. The man holds his hands up when he rises, and there's a sad look in his eyes. He takes his plastic bags and moves towards another dumpster further away from Dean.

Dean waits until the man's back is to him, then stares at the bottle. This could be a trick. He looks at the man again. The man's hands were dirty and scratched when they held the bottle out to him. His shoulders, where he's leaning over the dumpsters, are narrow and look just as permanently hunched as Dean's currently are. Dean inches closer, then snags the bottle up from the ground. Takes three quick steps back, even though leaning down and straightening up again as fast as he just did has left him out of breath and dizzy. The man hasn't moved, isn't looking at him.

Dean holds the bottle with his left hand, presses the wrist against his right arm to keep it close to his chest, and stumbles away as fast as he can.

>

He means to ration the water, but as soon as he gulps down his first mouthful, it's a pitiful fight against not drinking all of it at once. The bottle isn't big. Dean manages to leave a bit for later, but it's very little. He is weak. So weak, now, against the things he wants. Night falls, and that should make things easier. Dean can walk on the road now, only has to hide when cars drive by, which only happens one or two times. And he's under the open sky, but it's black and without lights, and his fever and exhaustion tell him that maybe it's not the sky at all. That maybe it's the endless black nothing of his prison.

But his fear of what might happen if he stops now is even greater, and it urges him along. As long as Dean's walking it means there are no walls around him. The beast and the burden, he thinks. They're still there, at his back, hovering over his shoulders. But they're not fighting him, and he is not fighting them. They're with him, silent company, but not nagging at his heels, not dragging him down. He can let himself drift, staggering along the road, and think of nothing. Dean has a vague sense of where he's going. He follows the road, and behind his eyes, he can see flashes of when he was moving on it in the other direction. Now, he's trying to get back to where he'd been before. The bunker. The last place he'd been in before –

His thinks he remembers it was about just as cold, the underbrush just as leafless as now. Maybe it hasn't been as long then.

He keeps almost falling down, his eyes sliding shut because his body tries again and again to fall asleep. Finally, there are the city lights in the distance. Dean skirts around them, forces himself up the hill and through the woods at the back of the bunker. Light is visible through the trees when he comes in sight of the door, and he's wheezing, his legs so shaky that he's barely walking straight. Another step, and another, and he's almost home, almost safe. A sharp pain explodes in his knees when they hit the ground, and then the dark has him again.

>

“ – up! Hey! Are you with me?! Come back to me, wake up, come on!” Everything is violently shaking around Dean, and there are _hands_ on him, gripping tight and digging into his skin. He recoils on instinct, scrambles backwards, shoving whoever or whatever away from him.

“Dean!” But his own name doesn't even register with him, and though the other person is clearly stronger, he fights until they're forced to let go, until their hands are raised in placation. His face pale and his hair a mess, Sam stares down at him, eyes wide and jaw clenched around words he's obviously struggling to hold down. But even though Dean recognizes him now, he can't make himself lose the tension in his muscles. He's still on his side, his back to a tree trunk, breathing heavily and shaking with adrenaline. He knows who Sam is, knows he means no harm, but his chest is tight with panic and he can't help but follow every one of Sam's movements with his eyes, teeth clenched tight and fingers digging in where he's hugging his right arm to his body.

Sam swallows, then slowly moves to crouch down, hands still held in front of himself where Dean can see them. “Dean,” he says, slower now, “Dean, do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?” His voice sounds calm, but there's a quiver in it. His eyes look wet, and a muscle is jumping in his jaw.

Dean observes him for another moment, then nods. He knows. Sam's shoulders sag immediately, he blows out a breath, scrubs a hand over his face. He seems to be fighting tears when he looks at Dean again, “Man, you have no idea how long – ”He stands up again, moves closer towards Dean, and Dean flinches, tries to inch even further away but the tree is blocking his way. Sam freezes again, takes a step back. “Hey. Hey, it's okay. It's okay, Dean.” Dean can feel that his chest is rising and falling too fast, black spots are dancing in his vision. He has to stand up, he is too vulnerable here on the ground. “Dean –”, Sam sounds alarmed when he pushes himself halfway to standing, hand scrambling at the tree bark for purchase. “Hey, take it easy – ”

He comes closer again, arms held out and hovering just that much too close. Dean moves to shove him away, but that means letting go of the tree. As soon as he does, he sways sideways and this time he's too weak and out too fast to fight the hands that catch him.

>

Dean wakes again to a strange smell, and a ground that is too soft. It doesn't smell or feel like danger though, so when he opens his eyes he just blinks in confusion, then slowly raises his head to survey his surroundings. He knows this place, and after a moment more, it clicks. This was – this is – his room. He sits up slowly, leans against the headboard and looks around. He can't remember what his room looked like when he was last here, but it doesn't exactly look changed, either. Strangely, there is a lot of dust on some surfaces, while on others there is none. There are also some clothes on the top of his drawer that he doesn't think are his. His gun is on the nightstand next to him. The water bottle he had is gone.

Dean's still staring kind of confused, gaze wandering around his room, when there are footsteps in the hallway. He had been relieved upon seeing that the door was halfway open, but now his muscles stiffen with tension, and he instantly attempts to shift back further on the bed. Sam appears in the doorway, and he relaxes immediately when he sees Dean. He's wearing something different, and he has a phone in his hands. “It's good to see you awake man, you were out for almost twelve straight hours.” Dean looks at him, tries to read his face. Sadness steals back into Sam's expression when Dean stays silent. He's holding his hands up for Dean to see, broadcasting his movements and keeping an eye on Dean while he comes closer to sit down in the chair that's been moved to the front of Dean's bed. A coat is slung over it, and Sam's mouth twists for a moment when he moves it to the side.

“I'm uh,” he scrubs a hand over his face, his gaze flickering to Dean's face and then away again, “I called Cas,” he holds up the phone, “he's coming here. He'd like to see you.”

He looks at Dean then, expectant. Dean stares back at him in silence. He doesn't know what's on his face, but it seems to make Sam's twist up again, like he's in pain. The skin around his eyes is bruised and red looking. Without warning, Sam jumps up from the chair again, but his gaze is to the wall so at least he doesn't see Dean flinch this time. Sam doesn't leave though, he stops and turns back towards Dean, runs his fingers through his hair in what appears to be frustration.

Dean looks down to the ground, guilt spreading sour and painful in his chest. He doesn't want to make Sam sad. He just doesn't know what to do.

Sam blows out a breath through his nose, shifts his weight around. Dean thinks Sam's looking at him again, but he can't bring himself to meet his eyes. “It's, you – ”, Sam starts, cuts himself off again with a frustrated noise. He sounds distressed. “You must be hungry. I'll go see what we got. I'll be right back, okay?”

Dean nods, finally looking up again. But Sam has already turned, is walking out of the room fast, furiously scrubbing at his eyes.

>

It takes a while for Sam to return. Dean continues to look around the room, but nothing is really registering with him. His fingers clench and unclench on top of the sheets without his input, and his legs stay tugged close to his body, even though his muscles hurt from the stiff position. He feels slightly nauseous, and like he's gonna need a bathroom soon.

Sam comes back before he can decide if he feels brave enough to leave the bed and go out into the hallway. He's holding a tray with something steaming on it. There's also bottled water, and Dean zones in on it. He fights to remain still when Sam deposits the tray on the end of his bed. A bowl of soup is on it, and something that looks like crackers. His stomach turns, and he just wants the water. But Sam is still standing there, shifting his weight around and looking at Dean anxiously. Like he expects him to do something, only Dean doesn't know what that is. Dean looks at the floor again. He notices that he's absently plucking at the sheets with the fingers of his left hand and makes himself stop. He hasn't yet tried if he can use his right arm at all. Is kind of afraid of finding he can't. Sam, too, has shifted closer, concerned, “Dean, are you hurt?”

Dean jerks back immediately, hugging his arm close protectively. Sam stops and raises his hands again, he swallows and rushes out, “Okay, it's okay. You eat something, and then we look at it tomorrow, okay Dean?” He stands there, a furrow between his brows and his eyes pleading, waiting for Dean's answer. He clearly wants Dean to say yes, but Dean doesn't know if he wants to say yes. So he just moves his head to the side and stares at the wall, plucks at the bedspread again, until Sam sighs and shuffles out of the room, shoulders sagging in defeat.

Dean looks after him, confusion and frustration closing his throat up. He feels guilty, and he wants to make this better, but he doesn't know how. His thirst is louder than his anger though. He inches closer to the tray, snags up the bottle of water and fumbles it open. Drains it in a couple of seconds. Then he shoves the tray with the other things away from himself. They smell strange, and he is sure he doesn't want to eat yet.

After, he sits on the bed and waits, fidgeting, until he can hear a door close at the other end of the hall. When it stays silent, he slowly gets up from the bed. Steps through the open door with a pounding heart, and looks around. He thinks he remembers behind which door number the bathroom is. He comes to a stop in front of it, turns the handle, and is greeted by darkness. For a moment, panic grips him, cold sweat breaking out under his arms and on his back. But then he remembers, light switch. He fumbles his left hand along the wall, and then the light goes on. He enters, but can't bring himself to shut the door behind himself completely, casts an anxious look back over his shoulder at it when he walks further into the room.

He relieves himself, and then stands in front of the mirror when he washes his hands. Dean doesn't feel brave enough yet to look at his face, so he just looks down on himself while he's standing there. The once brown and yellow flannel and the brown t-shirt underneath are spattered with blood, and are black all down the front where he'd vomited up all that whatever-it-was. His jeans are discolored with blood and other bodily fluids, his own and those of others. The bed sheets have already gotten dirty with it.

He knows he should shower. But the longer he is out of his room, the more anxious he gets. And he feels tired again too. Dean stands there and stares at his hands for another moment. They haven't been this clean for a long time. Strangely, he thinks it makes them look like they aren't his hands at all. Not after everything he's done.

The memories scratch at his mind again, and once more he shoves them away. His right hand is trembling with the effort of holding it up, and he lets it drop to hang uselessly at his side again. Limps out of the bathroom as fast as he can, eyes cast downwards and breathing too fast until he's in his own room again. He leaves the door wide open and all the lights on. Curls up on his side on the bed, and waits to fall asleep again.

>

Dean jerks out of a dream full of dark images, heart pounding away in distress. He scrambles upright, searches the room with his eyes on instinct. He can't remember what he dreamed, but it's left him drenched in cold sweat and shivering. From down the hall, there's Sam's voice drifting up to Dean's room, “ – won't talk to me. I don't know what to do with him. I'm – yeah. Yeah, I know. It's just, he – ”, and then the sound of a door closing.

He looks at the digital clock next to the bed. 4.01 AM. There's no more sounds from the hallway. Sam must be in his room, but he might not stay in there for long. And he had looked at Dean with so much helpless worry and frustration earlier. Dean can't keep doing that to him. That's not his job, he remembers that. And the longer he lies here, vulnerable and without a distraction, the worse he feels. Like the room is getting smaller, the very air draining from it. But he can get up. He did that yesterday. He can do it again.

There's a new bottle of water on his tray. Dean feels uneasy at the thought that Sam must have been in his room while he was asleep, and he didn't wake up from it. He knows Sam means no harm, but he can't help the goosebumps rising on his skin at the fact that he would have been unable to defend himself. It makes no sense, so he shoves it away. Concentrates on how soothing the cold water feels down his throat. He drinks about half of it, then pushes himself slowly off the bed.

Dean is halfway out of the room when he remembers. His plan is to shower, so that maybe Sam will no longer look at him like he's a ghost. But that also means clean clothes. Dean turns back around, looks uncertainly at the drawer. He still doesn't know why there are clothes that aren't his. He decides it's okay for now that he doesn't know. It takes him very long to sort out clothes. For a long time, he just stares at the shirts, completely at a loss. He kind of wants to wear one of the darker ones, but he ends up selecting a green one, and a t-shirt of a similiar shade. Maybe they'll make him look less like – whatever it is that Dean looks like right now.

He ends up having to go back twice, first because he forgot the socks, then because he forgot the t-shirt when he went back for them. By the time he's standing in the shower room, his heart is pounding and he's drenched in nervous sweat again. He kind of hadn't thought about – having to undress.

He leaves his new clothes by the door. Closes it behind himself, so as not to wake Sam up. The sound when the lock clicks makes dread pool in his stomach, his throat closing up with fear, but he fights it down. Steps away from the closed door and puts his back to it. The door is closed but not locked. Dean is not trapped here. He can open that door and leave any time he wants.

His shirt comes off easily enough, but the rest is more of a fight. His t-shirt sticks to the skin of his back with cold sweat, and his chest is all white skin and black vomit. That he can't use his right arm to get it off is not helping things. His arm doesn't hurt too much as long as he lies still and doesn't move it, but the jostling when he undresses makes sharp pain stab through it, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingers. He grits his teeth through it and keeps going. His jeans are similarly plastered to his skin in places, and getting his boots off is almost impossible. The laces are caked in dirt and filth, rotted away in places.

When he's finally free of his clothes, he stands shivering in the cool air. He feels incredibly vulnerable without them, however dirty and disgusting they had become.

He forces himself forward and turns the shower on with shaking fingers. For a long time, he stands in front of the spray and can't make himself step under it. He remembers how the cold water had stung him, how it had hurt him. He knows this water is warm, hot even, can feel the heat and steam of it. He holds his left hand under it first, then slowly inches closer until the water is hitting his head and shoulders. He gasps when it engulfs him, inhales some water on accident and coughs it out again.

After a while, his muscles lose their tension. He thinks he might actually like this. It feels so good, he almost forgets to use soap at all. Washing his hair turns into a struggle, because he can't quite bring himself to close his eyes, and the soap makes them sting. When he finally towels himself dry, he feels so exhausted like he's already been awake an entire day. But he thinks he feels better too. He struggles into the new clothes. They feel strange on his skin, but very light. His cheeks feel slightly stubbly when he touches his fingers against them. Maybe he should – he raises his eyes and accidentally catches a look at himself in the mirror. And then stares, can't look away.

He doesn't recognize himself. Or, he does, he knows that's him. But from the mirror, a man stares back at him whose eyes look too wide and big for his face, and dark shadows are under them. The cheeks look sunken, the skin pale and discolored with bruises and abrasions. The clothes hang on the body and the lips are cracked, forearms covered in barely healed scratches and white scars.

Panic spreads through his chest and disgust sours his guts at the sight of himself. He has to stare at the floor and swallow convulsively for a few minutes, before he can make himself look again. The man in the mirror looks even paler now, flush from the shower already draining away again. But he looks more determined too, back in control.

It takes him a moment to find a spare razor. Shaving with his left hand is awkward, and having to stare at himself through it makes shivers race up and down his spine. He nicks himself a few times, but he is also kind of proud of himself after. He searches for a toothbrush, but can't find one. Then he remembers, his own toothbrush and razor are in the cabinet over the sink in his room.  He is kind of relieved though. He doesn't think he could have managed to look at himself much longer.

It's strange, picking up his old clothes from the floor. They're still warm, from his wearing them, and tacky with sweat. He never wants to see them again, and yet also doesn't want to let them go.

>

With the clothes held in one hand and like a barrier in front of his chest, he shoulders out of the shower room, right as another door at the end of the hallway opens. Sam steps out, phone in his hand but the screen dark. His hair is a mess and his clothes look wrinkled. Sam closes his door and turns, and then freezes when he spots Dean standing in the hallway.

Sam's eyes widen, his mouth opens but no sound comes out. Dean tenses up, then forcefully relaxes his stance. He tries to adjust his mouth into something like a smile. It probably comes out awkward and shaky, but it's the best he can come up with. He can do this. He can be good. Sam stammers out, “Dean, you – ”, and walks over to him. It's too fast, and Dean can't help the way he tenses up this time. But Sam doesn't even seem to notice, he looks too happy. “Come here, let me,” and he takes the clothes and the shoes from Dean, who has to fight down the urge to cling to them and stop Sam from taking them away from him.

Sam makes a grimace, then mumbles under his breath about how he's going to burn something. Dean stands there, torn between being happy that Sam is happy, and feeling exposed and nervous. He kind of just wants to get back to his room, but Sam is blocking the way with his broad shoulders and his pleading eyes. “Dean,” he says, so eager he's almost tripping over his words, “you're hungry, right? I know you didn't eat your soup yesterday.”

Dean isn't hungry. Or he doesn't think he is. His stomach feels empty, and sometimes it cramps awfully, but that doesn't mean he wants to eat something. Especially not something someone else gives to him.

But Sam is still looking at him, all bright-eyed and excited. Maybe he can do this for Sam. Sam was angry with him when he'd last seen him, and he was sad because of Dean earlier. Yes. He can do this for Sam.

Dean searches Sam's eyes and nods. Sam perks up immediately, “That's great Dean, that's – ”, but he restrains himself at the last moment from touching Dean, his hand hovering kind of awkwardly in the air before he jerks it back. Dean follows the motion with his eyes nervously, but Sam only kind of nods to himself. His eyes are teary again, but he's still smiling at Dean. “Okay man, come on, we'll get you something right away.” He turns and walks – towards the kitchen. Right. The kitchen makes sense. Only, Dean hadn't thought about having to go there when he agreed to eat.

Sam, noticing that Dean isn't following him, turns around. “Come on, it's not gonna make itself.” He sounds a bit confused, but mostly excited. Happy, that Dean is gonna eat something. Dean forces his feet to move forward, slower than Sam but still fast enough to follow at his heels.

>

Dean hovers uncertainly in the kitchen doorway while Sam is already opening cupboards, rummaging through the fridge. He's apparently already gotten rid of Dean's clothes and his shoes, though Dean has no idea where Sam put them, can't see them. The kitchen is kind of messy, a lot of stuff lying around that he thinks doesn't belong here. He thinks the kitchen used to look different, but he's still trying hard not to think of the – the before.

Sam looks back at him, then pulls a face when he sees that Dean's just standing there, half in and half out of the room. “Come on Dean, sit down. It's gonna take a moment.” His laugh comes out kind of strained, but he's still downright buzzing with excitement. Dean enters the room, then eyes the chairs suspiciously. They look strange to him. He hasn't exactly sat in anything for he still doesn't know how long. He sinks down in one of the chairs slowly. The one that's closest to the door. Sam hurries over to him immediately, shoves stuff farther down the table to clear a space for Dean. “Sorry, sorry, we didn't really need – ” He cuts himself off, then scrubs a hand over his mouth. He turns around and puts his back to Dean, but the quivering of his shoulders is giving him away.

Dean stands up again and walks over to Sam. Swallows nervously, and then braces himself and reaches out with his left hand, lays it on Sam's arm. Sam' breathing hitches, and before Dean can think about what to do, Sam has already turned, face blotchy and expression all twisted up, and is engulfing Dean in his arms, pulling him close against his own body.

Dean goes still. His heart is beating too fast, and he feels cold all over. Sam is pressing Dean's right arm against his body with the hug, and it hurts in a way he can feel down to his fingertips. But Sam is also trembling, his arms shaking around Dean and face smashed into Dean's shoulder, fingers bunched into the fabric of Dean's shirt. Dean can't really hug back anyway, not with Sam's arms wrapped around his shoulders. So he just stays motionless and forces his breathing to stay even, while Sam's tears soak into his shirt.

Finally, Sam pats him on the back and then straightens and gives Dean some space. Dean immediately breathes easier for it. Sam sniffles, drags his hands over his eyes, “Sorry, I'm sorry. I just. We, we had thought you were – ”

He swallows the words back with obvious difficulty, then turns to once more scrub furiously at his eyes, “Eat. Right, I wanted to – ”

Dean watches Sam helplessly, the way he pulls things out of drawers only to put them right back in. Not knowing what to do about Sam's distress, he sits back down, tries to remain quiet and unobtrusive. Sam still has his back to him, but his voice sounds steadier already when he asks, “Hey, what do you want? We don't really have much. And I know you don't really like soup, but I thought – ” He turns back around from where he's standing in front of an open cupboard, but it seems like he can't quite bring himself to look at Dean.

“I thought we could try the soup again, because you look like – if, if you haven't eaten in a while, it would be better to start with something light.” He finally looks at Dean, an almost apologetic look on his face. Dean doesn't feel like he quite understands what Sam means, so he just nods. Sam heaves out a huge breath, like he was really worried about something. Dean is confused. He has to be more careful.

Sam fiddles with the stove, and Dean tries not to squirm nervously in his seat. His arm hurts, and he lets it rest in his lap, tries to keep it as still as possible. When Sam deposits the soup in front of him, he feels nauseous from the very smell. But he has tried out the words in his head for the last couple of minutes, and now he clears his throat nervously and asks, “Toast?” His voice sounds horribly raspy and shaky to his ears. Sam freezes and stares at Dean in shock for a moment before a smile breaks out on his face, lighting up his features. “Yes, toast. Of course you can have toast, Dean.” He's still smiling while he makes the toast, and is positively beaming when he puts it next to the bowl of soup. He's made some for himself too, “So you don't have to eat alone.” He looks so happy it makes Dean feel brave enough to pick up his spoon with his left hand and try the soup. Sam's eyes flicker to Dean's right arm again, but he doesn't say anything about it for now.

Handling the spoon with his left is awkward, but he manages to spill very little of the soup. He burns his tongue on it a bit, and it tastes – he doesn't know. He manages about half of it, nibbles on the dry toast but finally gives up on it. It's okay though. It has to be. He ate something. And he said something. That's what Sam wanted.

He's tired again already though, and Sam seems to notice, because during taking bites of his own toast he waves in Dean's direction, “Go back to sleep man, you look beat. Oh, and hey,” he swallows, fixes Dean with a look, “Cas should be here tomorrow morning.”

There's that expectant look again, but Dean still doesn't know what it means. What kind of reaction Sam is going for. So he just nods, drops his gaze to the tabletop, then jerks it back up because _eyes to the front._ Sam just shakes his head at him, his smile tinted with sadness. “Get some sleep, Dean.”

>

The human reaches out a hand to him, then screams when he breaks her arm. Her eyes are wide in her white face, she's saying a word over and over that he cannot hear, but he's backing away now, because her face, he knows it, he knows her –

Dean jerks awake, his heart beating so fast he feels like he's suffocating. He pushes himself up from the mattress, with both arms, then sags down again when the pain of his right arm catches up with him. It's like someone cut it open and all the nerves are raw and laid bare. He gasps, pushes with his good arm until he's at the edge of the bed. The bedside lamp crashes to the floor, but it barely registers with him. He's drenched in sweat, his head pounding, and he can feel something awful crawling its way up his throat.

He just about manages to prop himself up with one arm and lean over the bedside, and then he's vomiting, his throat and eyes burning with it. His chest is tight and he can't breathe, and he just wants the images to stop, but it's all there behind his eyes now, bright color and sound. He coughs and fights for breath, his fingers clenched so hard in the bedspread that it hurts. Her terrified face, her screaming, and then –

Suddenly, there are hands on him, on his back and shoulders, holding him up. “Dean, hey, hey. Can you breathe? Breathe for me, come on –” Dean tries to shove him away with his left arm, almost loses his balance. He's still spitting stuff onto the floor, and through the haze of tears in his eyes he thinks there's some black in it. Sam is rubbing circles into his back, and he shudders, jerks his shoulder away and tries to scramble towards the headboard. He flails his good arm out blindly, kicks with his legs until Sam is forced to let go of him. “Dean – ” He doesn't want to listen, to be touched, be stared at. “ _No_ ,” he forces out through clenched teeth, grips the headboard tight with his left hand and curls up against it, “No, no, no.” He can't stop. He just wants it all to stop.

He's keeping his eyes shut tight, but he can feel Sam shift closer on the mattress. Sam's voice sounds horribly choked up “Dean, talk to me, please – ” But Dean doesn't want him any closer, he wants it to _stop_. “Out,” he hisses, his throat closed up and aching like he's swallowed a knife, “Out!”

Sam hesitates, and then his weight leaves the bed. He says, very quiet, “Okay, Dean. Okay.” There are footsteps, and then he's gone. Dean sags against the headboard, breathes harshly in and out. His face feels hot and he can barely swallow against the ache in his throat. He digs his finger into his right arm, pain building and spiking through it like flames under his skin.

>

He drifts there for a while, forehead leaned against the headboard. He falls asleep a few times, but is always jerked out of it after a few seconds by his racing pulse and the things he sees behind his eyes. He tries to focus on his breathing, to think of nothing. But his mind is clearer now, the barriers he'd put up fractured and torn down in places. He must fall asleep for a while though, because suddenly there are loud voices in the hallway. Sam is saying, his voice a strained blend of anger and stress, “ – really shouldn't, he's not ready.” And then another voice, “No. Get out of my way Sam, right now.”

And then there are footsteps coming closer, and Dean feels panic crawl up his back. He doesn't know what to do. His door is wide open, the lights still on, because he had to keep it that way, he just had to. But that also means he's vulnerable, and dangerously exposed. He's tense all over, forehead pressed against the headboard so hard it hurts, and his eyes shut tight as if that means they can't see him, as if it's all not happening.

The footsteps stop in front of his room.

He fights to breathe more evenly, to not let the tremble of his limbs show. But his control is slipping, and it only makes the panic spike higher. The breathing of the person standing in the doorway hitches audibly, and then the footsteps start again, closer now. “Dean,” Cas is saying, his voice shaky and too rough, and Dean can't handle it, can't, just can't. He whips his head around and glares at Cas, and he hears his own raspy and cracking voice shout, “Out! Get out!”

Cas freezes where he's halfway into Dean's room, stares at Dean with his eyes red and his hair a mess. His mouth is working around something he can't seem to say, but he's still not leaving, still not looking away from Dean. Cas' hands are clenched into fists, and it makes the fear and aggression he can't control boil over. “Get _out_!”, he screams, and Cas flinches as if he's been hit, the color draining from his face. He almost trips over his feet on his way out, but then he's gone.

Dean is breathing so fast he's getting lightheaded. He lets it happen. Curls as close to the headboard as he can, and finally loses consciousness.

>

He wakes up again from a dreamless sleep. Blinks his eyes open and stares at the sheets, listens for sounds from the hallway. It's quiet, and he raises his head, looks around his room. The door is still wide open, the light on in his room and in the hallway. The covers are bunched up at the end of his bed, probably from his kicking his feet to get Sam away from himself. The sheets Dean had changed after showering are splattered with his vomit, and the stuff is still covering the floor at the side of his bed.

Dean swallows and looks away. The inside of his mouth tastes awful. Everything is awful. His head and his throat hurt, and his arm feels numb. But the memory of Sam and Cas is worse. He has hurt them, has heard the pain in Sam's voice, seen it on Cas' face. He is awful. Why is he here, why are they even keeping him here?

He wants to curl up and sleep and never wake up again, but anxious energy makes him scramble off the bed. He stands in the doorway uncertainly for a moment, then walks over and enters the bathroom as quietly as he can. He washes his hand and rinses out his mouth when he's done, and then stands in front of the mirror and stares at himself and can't look away. He knows that's him. But after what happened, after all that he did – how can he still be the same? Sam and Cas will want him to be the same. But Dean can't do that, won't be able to do that. The more he lets himself remember, the worse he gets. And if he can't be what they need him to be, what is he supposed to do?

He drops his gaze to the floor. Snags some towels and wets them in the sink, then goes back to his room and starts to clean the floor. While his right arm is no help, at least it's still numb and doesn't distract him. He gets most of it off the floor, but the stains remain. The towels are ruined, and his hand is soiled all over again. The stuff smells like something's died inside of him.

Dean gets up and moves to get rid of the towels and wash his hands again. But just as he's about to exit his room, a weight drops onto his shoulders, so sudden and heavy his knees almost give in. He sways sideways, gasping in shock and sagging against the door frame. But what makes his lungs freeze up and his hand to let the towels drop to the floor is the sound of a high ringing note in the air.

He whirls around, holding onto the door frame with a desperate grip. He searches the room with his eyes, can't find anything. But the bed, the drawers, the guns on the wall – they are threatening him, staring at him. The note gets louder. It's going to make him do things again. It's going to make him hurt people again, like he'd hurt – her. Terrified eyes staring at him in fear, her mouth forming, “Dean, _no_!”

He runs from his room as fast as he can, this room that is really just another hole in the ground. It makes no difference, because he isn't different. He is still the same thing he was made to be. And that means he can't be here, where he used to be another thing that he can't be anymore.

Dean almost doesn't make it up the stairs to the bunker's door, his legs giving in under him and his shoulder crashing against the wall. But then he's at the door, tears it open and limps outside where it's barely light. He turns and enters the woods as fast as he can manage, without direction but driven by the need to get away. His breathing goes harsh fast, and the cold air burns in his already tender throat. His legs are trembling so bad after only a few minutes that he's more stumbling than walking, but he can't stop. Maybe if he gets far enough away, the weight on his shoulders will leave him, and the high note in the air will go away.

But even through his strained breathing, he can still hear it. It's not following him.

It's inside of him.

The realization takes the last bit of strength out of his legs and he crashes to his knees. Presses his left hand to his forehead and shuts his eyes tight, despair closing his throat up and leaving him gasping for breath. It's then that he hears the shouting, but he can't even bring himself to stand up and defend himself, can't do anything.

They crash through the underbrush behind him, hurried footsteps coming to an abrupt stop. Dean hugs his arm close to his body, curls over his chest and squeezes his eyes shut. “Dean?” Cas is slowly coming closer, and Dean can't handle the uncertainty in his voice, can't stop the way his breath is shuddering. Cas walks up to him, and then there's the rustle of clothes like he's crouching down. His hand touches Dean's left shoulder, and Dean covers it with his own, clings to it, “Make it stop,” he pleads through the tears in his voice, “please make it _stop_.”

Cas is saying something, and he thinks he can hear Sam shout both of their names, but consciousness is leaving him again, and the ringing of the high note leaves him with it.

>

Dean wakes up again, but this time it's slower, and there's no panic. He blinks his eyes open, and at first has no idea where he is. It's not his bed, and the floor looks different. He's lying on a couch, a soft blanket smelling of laundry detergent thrown over him, and it looks like he's in the library. Only, he doesn't remember there being a couch there. He blinks again, starts to move his good hand to rub at his eyes, and then realizes that his hand seems to be stuck. He looks towards the end of the couch and sees Cas sitting on the floor, holding Dean's hand in his. Or more like, Dean is holding Cas' hand captive, his grip tight and his skin clammy where's he's holding onto him.

Cas is watching him, and Dean searches his eyes nervously. He can't remember how he got here, but he remembers how he lost control earlier. He can't explain what happened, only that he'd felt trapped and haunted, and desperately afraid of himself.

Cas looks tired and concerned, all dark circles and unruly hair. But his voice is calm and familiar, “Hello, Dean.” It makes warmth spread through Dean immediately, and he thinks he's even smiling a little. He looks down at their hands in what he hopes is a questioning manner, and Cas seems to understand, because he looks away for a moment, like he does when he's embarrassed. “You, uh, you wouldn't let go of it. We had to carry you anyway, so.” He makes a helpless gesture with his other hand, a slight flush on his cheeks, but sadness steals back into his expression when he looks at Dean again.

Cas rubs a thumb gently over Dean's knuckles, “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Dean looks down at their hands again. He doesn't know if Cas is asking about all of it, or just about what made Dean yell at them and then run outside and break down there. He doesn't even know if he understands all of that himself. Now, lying on the couch with only silence in the air and Cas a warm and comforting presence at his side, in contrast to a threatening and dangerous one, his reactions and fears seem irrational to him. Like it didn't really happen to him, like he was somewhere completely different while that happened. But it did happen, and he can feel all of it lurking at the edges of his mind. A beast, lying dormant and patiently waiting for the next trigger to haul it back to the surface, spitting black venom and attacking everything in sight.

When Dean is silent for too long, Cas sets on to say something else, but stops himself when Dean clears his throat. Dean is afraid, but he has to know. He can't run from this, he knows that now. He swallows and forces himself to look at Cas again, asks with a voice that barely sounds like his own, “Charlie?” Cas looks confused for a moment, and then understanding dawns on his face. “She's alive, Dean. She's okay.” He pauses, and Dean is alarmed to find that Cas eyes are red with more than exhaustion now. “In fact, she really wants to see you. We – we've all, we missed you.”

Dean closes his eyes in relief, just breathes for a moment. Charlie is okay. She survived Dean attacking her when he was barely human anymore. He feels exhausted, but he forces himself to ask the other thing he's been trying not to think about. He looks at Cas again, steels himself. “How... how long?” Cas' expression twists, he bites his lip and looks away from Dean briefly, heaves in a shuddering breath. His voice is very quiet when he replies, “Over six months.”

Cas lets him digest that for a moment. He looks down at Dean's hand again, continues to stroke his thumb over the skin there. “We tried to get you out. We – ” He looks back up again, searches Dean's eyes. “Do you want us to tell you now? Should I get Sam?”

Dean hesitates. He is afraid of knowing more. But he knows he has to do this. He nods. Cas looks at him, worried but resigned. He lets go of Dean's hand almost reluctantly. “I'll be right back, okay?” He waits until Dean nods again, then leaves and comes back a moment later with Sam in tow. Sam doesn't look much better than Cas, he has a bedhead and it looks like he's slept in his clothes. Dean immediately feels guilty, though he can't but feel relieved when Sam smiles at him. “Good to see you up, man. You gave us a scare.”

Dean looks to the floor. He wants to apologize, but he doesn't feel like he can talk anymore right now. Better he just listens for now.

From the corners of his vision, he can see Sam's face fall when Dean stays silent, but Sam doesn't push the issue. Cas sits back down on the floor at the foot of the couch, and after a moment's hesitation, Sam follows his example. Dean is grateful for it. He feels less anxious with them not looming over him.

Cas makes an abortive movement towards Dean, then casts a glance to the side and rests his hands in his lap. Dean's guts churn, and he tugs his own own hand under the blanket. His skin is dirty and clammy. Cas probably remembered that too, and is happy that Dean is no longer holding onto him.

Sam clears his throat, and Dean turns his focus to him. He won't be able to tell them anything, but he can listen.

>

The moment Magnus had thrown him out, Sam had tried to find a way back in. Crowley had helped him get together the ingredients for a spell the Men of Letters had in their files, but either it was too old or Magnus had somehow locked the door behind himself. Sam couldn't get back in, and Crowley disappeared. After more fruitless research, Sam had called Cas for help, who had cut short the mission he had been on with several other angels to come to the bunker. For over a month, there was nothing. No breakthrough, but also no sign of Dean or Magnus. Then, they became aware of killings all over the US and elsewhere. Vamps nests, werewolves, even wendigos. The hunters network actually became aware of them first, because no one knew who had done it. No known hunter, or really anybody, was ever seen around the areas where it happened. Charlie, barely back from Oz, had been pulled into the search too. Dean stiffens at the mention of her name, but they are both quick to assure him that while her arm was broken and she was severely rattled, she was okay now. Dean has to see that for himself, but he nods for them to continue.

The rest of their story is short and to the point. Sam stayed at the bunker, while Cas tried to find out more while being on the road. Charlie commuted between the bunker and an apartment in Topeka. When they talk about splitting up the work, Dean observes the way Cas shifts his gaze to the side, and the way Sam's jaw clenches. He is aware that they are brushing over things, trying to not exhaust Dean too much while also steering away from topics that might trigger him. There are a lot of gaps in their story, but he lets it lie for now, listens silently.

No one had found any way inside Magnus' fortress until Sam called them with the news that Dean had shown up outside the bunker out of nowhere. While his voice was calm and precise before, now Sam loses the control over his expression, and a quiver steals into his voice. “Charlie set up the bunker to alert us if someone came near, but I didn't think to check because the alert was for a human and it didn't move closer. You were there for _hours_ , and when I went to check I almost didn't recognize you. I had to carry you inside, and you were – ”

Sam cuts himself off, stands up all in a rush and turns his back to the both of them for a moment, hands messing up his already messy hair. Dean watches him with a lump in his throat, not knowing what to do. He can't talk, and he feels too weak to get up. But Sam is already turning again, his eyes wet and his jaw tense, “For months, I knew where you were, and I couldn't get you out, again I couldn't – ”

He scrubs a hand over his mouth, breathes deeply and deliberately for a moment. Guilt twists ugly and painful in Dean's chest. He shifts on the couch, and moves his right arm without thinking about it. It doesn't hurt as bad right now, but enough to make him grimace. “Dean?” Cas, who had stayed silent during Sam's breakdown, is immediately alerted, rising up from his knees but then hesitating again. “Dean? Are you hurt?” Sam is looking at him too now, but mercifully doesn't say anything. Leaves it up to Dean. Dean looks between both of them. He is hurt, but he also isn't. So he just shrugs, awkwardly and with one shoulder. Cas eyes him critically, but he seems to understand, kind of. “You're in pain, but you're not injured?”

Dean nods. He feels embarrassed, not being able to use his words like a little kid. But his voicebox still isn't cooperating. Sam and Cas don't ask again, but Dean can tell they're not convinced. Sam heaves in a breath, looking beat. “You're dehydrated. I'm gonna get you some water.” He leaves fast and without looking at either of them, and Dean looks after him, guilty and feeling like shit for making them worry.

Sam comes back with another plastic bottle of water. Probably because it's easier to drink out of those, but Dean tries not to think about that. Sam crouches down in front of the couch, “You think you can sit up on your own?” Dean scowls at him, and Sam gives him a bitchface, and that somehow makes him feel a bit better. He struggles up enough to take the bottle Sam has already unscrewed, and manages about half of it before the nausea comes back. He grimaces and hands it back, and Sam puts it on the floor where Dean can reach it.

When Dean settles back, consciousness already fading again, Cas is still sitting near the foot end of the couch, his fingers twitching in his lap.

>

“Let's get started,” the voice says, from in front of him and from inside of his head. It makes his guts twist, but he's not allowed to throw up right now. “Can't ruin my shoes now, can we?” A hand is pressed to his forehead and the force of the grip on his body and mind presses his knees painfully into the ground. He chokes on his breath, his eyes shut tight and his jaw clenched, but it doesn't help. His will wavers, his thoughts escaping him however desperately he tries to hold onto them. Images and memories are dragged up to the surface and then taken from him. One by one, and he loses the knowledge of who he is with them. His face is wet, he's crying, because it _hurts_ , it hurts so bad, why doesn't it stop, why –

Dean startles awake to someone saying his name, the voice strained and urgent. He blinks his eyes open to a vision that is swimming and going in and out of focus. He can make out the outline of a bucket in front of the couch, and just about manages to lean forward over it before he's spitting out the water from earlier. Blearily, he thinks he's growing really tired of this, and from the way it burns, his throat is probably too. At least it's not as much of it this time, and the water only looks gray instead of black when his vision clears enough to let him take a look at it. He collapses against his pillow again, his breathing flat and hoarse.

When his vision clears, Cas is watching him with big eyes full of worry. There's a mattress on the floor behind him, blankets in a mess on top. He reaches over and holds the bottle out to Dean. “Do you want to rinse out your mouth?”

Dean's left arm is trembling slightly, but he manages to get a grip on the bottle and swirl the water around in his mouth, then spits it into the bucket. Cas watches him thoughtfully, “Maybe the water is too cold for your stomach. We should try tea.” He stands and picks up the bucket when Dean lies back down, waits until Dean meets his eyes, “I'll be right back okay?” Dean looks away again and nods, at once embarrassed at being coddled and nervous about being left alone.

Cas, as if sensing his distress, hovers in front of the couch for a moment. “I'll be right back,” he repeats, then leaves and takes the bucket with him, his mouth a tight line and expression stormy. Dean takes a few deep breaths and closes his eyes, but then has to immediately open them again because the dark behind them is worse than the emptiness of the room. To distract himself, he casts his gaze around, tries to find other changes in the room beside the couch. His eyes land on the mattress Cas apparently slept on. There's another bottle of water, a phone, and a gray sweater on the floor beside it. At first, Dean doesn't know why the sweater appears strange to him – it's probably cold on the floor, and Cas had only been wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants when Dean woke up. But then he realizes, he has seen it before. It's obviously not his or even Sam's, but it was lying on top of the dresser in Dean's room.

Cas comes back with the empty bucket and a steaming cup in his hands while Dean is still puzzling over this discovery. He feels like it means something, but he can't figure out what. Cas jolts him out of his thoughts when he deposits the clean bucket on the floor near Dean's head and then kneels down, close to him but still about an arm's reach away. Giving Dean space, broadcasting his movements. He holds up the cup. “Chamomille tea. I made sure it's not too hot. Do you think you can sit up enough to drink it?”

Dean eyes the tea warily. It's probably gonna taste like ass. But his sore throat might appreciate it, and his mouth tastes like ass already anyway. He sighs, then forces himself up carefully, gripping the back of the couch with his left hand. His head swims and pounds, and he can't hold back a wince, but after a moment the dizziness fades. He leans his back against the couch, then holds out his left hand for the cup. Cas hands it to him, “You still can't use your other arm?” Dean just shrugs again, awkward with one shoulder. He isn't sure, but he'd rather not find out right now. His body is aching enough with exhaustion and fuck knows what else for him to want and try out his limits right now.

He sniffs at the tea, then takes a tentative sip and grimaces. He was right. It does taste like ass. It soothes the ache of his throat though, so he is just about to drink some more of it when he hears a sniffle and sees Cas rub at his face from the corners of his vision. Dean looks up and stares at him. Cas stops wiping at his eyes when he notices, but he won't look at Dean, hands clenching and unclenching on his knees. “Sorry, I'm sorry, it's just – ” He forces his gaze up with what seems like great effort, and his expression twists up when he meets Dean's eyes. “I had thought I would never –” He breaks off again with a frustrated noise.

Dean waits for more, some explanation, but it seems Cas has hit some emotional limit and just sits there, jaw tense and furious eyes staring a hole into some poor unsuspecting patch of wall. Dean fidgets, uncomfortably aware of the shift of energy in the air, of Cas' rigid shoulders. He wants to say something to snap Cas out of it, but his voice is still somewhere lost inside of him. Dean casts his gaze around for a distraction, then remembers the sweater on the floor. It's embarrassing, not being able to do such a simple thing like speak, but Cas needs him right now, or needs _something_ , at least. So Dean shifts to rest the cup in his lap carefully – the last thing he needs is to burn his jewels with ass tasting leaf water – and awkwardly waves his hand to get Cas' attention.

Cas' gaze immediately shifts to him, alerted. Not quite the reaction Dean was going for, but at least Cas' focus is on him now, and not on whatever dark thoughts had seeped into him and made him look that way. Like someone had died. There was mention that Cas had been on mission with some of his angel friends, and however much Dean dislikes them, he really hopes Cas hasn't had to watch more of his family get captured and murdered while Dean was – wasn't there.

Now, Dean plucks at his own shirt to try and get across what he means, then points at the sweater and then towards the hallway and where, vaguely, his own room is. Cas watches Dean make an ass of himself with rapt attention, but not like any of it makes sense to him. Until suddenly his eyes widen, and then a flush rises over his blotchy cheeks. And then he won't look at Dean anymore, looks off to the side. Cas only does that when he finds something amusing, when he's embarrassed, or when he's angry. Cas' hands curl into fists on his knees, and he gets up all in a rush, “I'm going to make more tea.”

And then he practically runs out of the room.

Dean looks after him, absolutely confused. He picks up his cup again before the horrible water can go cold, but it's like it tastes even worse now. He feels frustrated and disappointed with himself. Of course he fucked up, and instead of making Cas feel better he made him be angry with Dean.

>

Cas doesn't come back. Instead, Sam wanders into the library a few minutes after Cas left to get away from Dean, looking slightly irritated and like he just woke up. But he smiles at Dean when he sees him, “Hey, Cas said you wanted to see me?”

Dean freezes in between taking sips from his cup, and then scowls into the general direction of where Cas ran off to. Sam laughs at Dean's expression, though there's also concern on his face. “I take it he lied then.” When Dean's expression doesn't clear, Sam sighs, then moves to crouch down in front of the couch. Like Cas, he seems careful to keep at least an arm's length of distance between himself and Dean. It makes guilt stab at Dean's chest again, the hazy memories of how he reacted to their proximity before. “Don't be too hard on him, okay Dean? The last few months were really rough on him too.”

Dean looks at him questioningly, but Sam either can't interpret it or has decided not to elaborate. He asks, “Hey, do you want me to move the TV from my room here? So you can watch something?” Dean hesitates, but only for a moment, and then shakes his head. He's pretty sure he can't take any noise or fast moving images right now.

Sam seems to kind of have expected Dean's answer, because he just nods to himself, and then points to the library tables. “I'm gonna send some mails and stuff, I'll be right over there, okay? Do you want some more tea?”

Dean grimaces, which makes Sam chuckle, but he hands him the almost empty cup. His stomach actually feels more settled, and it does help his throat. But he can't wait to drink coffee again. Sam brings him back Chamomille tea – again, and where does that terrible stuff even come from? Their anti-witch supplies? – and settles himself at one of the tables with his laptop and a steaming cup of his own. If he notices Dean casting glances at the doorway in between sipping and trying not to fall asleep again yet, he doesn't confront Dean about it.

>

Dean startles awake again out of dreams of ice stabbing water and bloody faces. He lies there on his back for a moment, staring at the ceiling and waiting for his heart to stop pounding. His guts churn but settle after a few moments. Maybe the tea really did help. Or all that black disgusting stuff is finally out of his system.

His bladder is killing him though. Maybe it was that what woke him up, and not the nightmares. He looks around, and the library's lights have been dimmed but not turned off. Sam is lying on the mattress Cas had vacated, a blanket thrown haphazardly over his legs, fully clothed and fast asleep. Dean sits up slowly, then puts his legs on the floor one at a time, testing his strength. He will probably be slow, and look ridiculous, but damn him if he lets anyone help him to the bathroom.

He braces his left arm on the couch and heaves himself to standing. His head swims for a second, but he doesn't fall down. He walks slowly, to keep his balance and to not wake up Sam. The lights are still on in the hallway, and he is grateful for it.

When he comes back, Sam hasn't moved. Dean stands and looks down on him for a moment, the way Sam sprawls over the entire mattress, the frown lines on his face. He bends carefully and tugs the blanket further up Sam's body.

He lies awake for a while, staring at the faintly illuminated ceiling and listening to the hum of electricity. When he fails to hear any other sounds in it, he lets Sam's breathing lull him back to sleep.

>

The next time he wakes, the lights are still dimmed, but Sam is sitting cross-legged on the mattress, typing away on his laptop that he's keeping balanced on his knees. He looks better than yesterday, freshly showered and in different clothes. Less tired and twitchy. His shirt is an abomination of green and yellow plaid, and his hair is too long again. Fondness spreads through Dean, and he watches Sam without moving, until Sam looks up and notices that he's awake.

“Hey man, how did you sleep?” When Dean stays silent and just keeps looking at him, his smile falters a bit, but he holds up the laptop, “Charlie wrote back she could come over in about three days. What do you – would that be okay?”

Dean mulls that over for a minute. He just woke up, he isn't even sure if he's ready to eat anything, or take a shower on his own. But. He did something horrible to her, and Cas too said she wanted to see him. He owes her the chance to confront him herself, no matter how Dean is feeling. He nods, dread already pooling in his stomach. Sam visibly perks up, “That's great Dean, she's been asking about you a lot since you got back.”

He types for a few more minutes, while Dean lies still and just keeps his eyes closed, working to get his heartbeat down and the nausea to leave him. He's been throwing up enough lately to last him three lifetimes. “Hey, you think you can eat something today?” Sam asks while clicking around on his laptop some more. “Maybe some toast with that chicken broth from last night?”

He looks up in time to see Dean grimace, “I know you don't like it, but you're running a fever already with lack of fluids and nutrition. And I tried it, it's not that bad.” Dean opens his mouth to try and say it's actually worse than bad, but his voice still doesn't work. He closes his mouth again, feels his face heat with embarrassment and frustration. He doesn't understand it. Before, even while he was feeling way worse than now, he was able to at least get a few words out. Sam just sighs, closes his laptop and sets it aside before he gets up. “Just take it easy, dude. You always try to force everything.”

Dean scowls at his back when Sam, far too cheerfully, leaves to get Dean hot water that tastes vaguely of dead bird. Yesterday, Sam had brought over a notebook and a pen for Dean to use, but Dean had been too frustrated with himself to pay attention to where they ended up, and he can't write for shit with his left hand anyway. He eyes Sam's laptop speculatively, heaves himself up and leans over to pick it up from the floor. He's wheezing by the time he's got himself in something like a sitting position, but he manages to deposit the laptop on his legs and power it up again.

He can't find a writing program on Sam's mess of a desktop, so he just types what he wants to say into the Google search thingy. He smiles proudly when he hands Sam back his laptop a few minutes later, and it's worth the bitchface Sam pulls at “i want grilled cheese” typed into his Google. Worth it, even though Sam vetoes the cheese and just shoves the broth and a plate of plain dry toast at Dean. Because even though Sam still hovers close while trying not to come too close, he's more relaxed around Dean now. It obviously unnerves him that Dean isn't talking, but he no longer looks at him like Dean is gonna freak out on him and bolt the first chance he gets.

Sam sits back on the mattress to eat his own breakfast, something that looks vaguely like a disgusting mix of yogurt, granola and fruits. Dean lets it slide though. It's not like he can protest, not verbally at least. And he's grateful too, because somehow Sam has caught on to the fact that eating is easier for Dean when someone else is eating too. It's pretty okay for while, Dean working his way through his broth, slow with only his left hand functioning, and Sam reading through something on his laptop while he eats.

After a while though, Sam starts to fidget, and cast nervous glances at Dean. Like he wants to ask him something, but doesn't know how, or if he even should. Dean is pretty sure it's not gonna be something he'd wanna answer, but it's not like he can run out on Sam and hide somewhere right now. So he just waits, sipping on his broth and grimacing at the taste when he takes a too big swallow. Sam seems to go through some kind of internal battle, watching Dean nervously, until finally he clears his throat. “Dean? I'm uh, I've been meaning to ask you something.”

Dean has just finished his bowl, and a bit of the toast. He's kind of thirsty now, but it can wait. Sam is looking at him with big and pleading eyes, like he knows Dean's not gonna like what he's about to ask, and feels sorry for it even while he obviously wants an answer. Or like he's afraid of what the answer is gonna be. Dean sets the bowl aside, then looks at Sam expectantly. Sam heaves in a breath, gestures vaguely at his laptop, then finally gets it all out in a rush. “Charlie called me after she saw you. I'm not gonna lie, she was pretty shaken.” He pauses, and Dean has to swallow and stare at the floor for a moment, concentrate on his breathing. Memories of that night tug at his mind, and he has to fight hard to stay in the here and now.

Sam watches him struggle silently and with a pitiful expression, and waits until Dean has himself back in control enough to look at him again. Even then, he seems reluctant to say more, but then he sets his jaw and plows on, “Dean, she said that... when you came through her window, she didn't even realize it was you at first. Only when you were close enough that she could see your face. And she said – she said your eyes were black.” He stops again, painful memories flickering behind his eyes and a muscle jumping in his jaw. Dean is frozen, his throat tight and his heart beating so hard he can barely draw breath around it. Sensing his panic, Sam almost stumbles around his next words, “But you're definitely – I mean, the bunker's system identified you as human, and I tested you while you were out. And all that black stuff, when you,” he makes a motion with his hand in front of his face, like all of a sudden he can't say puke anymore, “We think that was like, the remains of it.”

He falls silent for a moment and Dean stares at him, tries to digest all of that. Sam continues to fidget though, and after a moment he starts again, expression pained but determined. “Cas told me all he knew about the mark, and we had some info from Crowley too, but didn't know how far we could trust it. But we knew it's what turned Cain into a demon, so after Charlie, we thought – ” He swallows, takes a ragged sounding breath. “We didn't stop trying to find a way to get to you, but we thought, even if we found you, it would probably not be you anymore.”

He falls silent, swallowing convulsively and pleading eyes fixed on Dean. Dean stares at him. He knows what Sam is asking, but he finds himself unable to react. He doesn't know what's on his face, but it makes Sam frown and lean closer, “Dean, you – did you even understand any of that?” Dean rolls his eyes at him in reply. He can't _speak_ , that don't mean his brain is fried chicken. Sam only continues to frown at him, and then picks up his laptop and holds it out to Dean demonstratively. Dean takes it and puts it down on the couch. He can't write this down. But he can do something else.

Sam is just about to berate him again when Dean rolls up the sleeve on his right arm, then holds it up with his left so Sam can see. There are barely healed abrasions on his skin, but the white scar tissue where the mark used to be is clear to see. Sam's eyes widen almost comically at the sight. “Dean, how did you – ” he starts, then jumps up so abruptly that Dean flinches and tears down the hall, comes back a few seconds later with a confused and annoyed looking Cas in tow. Dean feels stupid and way too vulnerable sitting there with his useless arm on display like that, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to stay still. Cas stops dead in his tracks when his eyes fall on Dean's arm, and by this point Sam is practically jumping up and down in excitement by his side. “It's gone, I mean it's really –”, but Cas interrupts him, staring at Dean in shocked disbelief, “Dean, how did you do this?”

Dean makes a face and rolls up his sleeve again, deciding he's been gawked at enough. He feels tired from all the excitement, but it's true that Sam and Cas deserve to know. He sighs and picks up the laptop. Sam has opened a text document for him, the font size jacked up to make them able to read it even from a distance. He types in “i said no”, then turns the thing so Sam and Cas can see. They both immediately scowl at him, misunderstanding his meaning. “Dean, come on. I know you don't want to – ” Dean huffs in exasperation, turns the laptop back around to himself. Typing with his left is awkward and takes too long, and he mistypes a few times. “i mean I said no and it happened. That's it”, and this time when he turns it for Sam and Cas to see, there's silence for a long moment.

“Dean,” Sam finally starts, sounding choked up but relieved beyond words, his eyes shining, “that's just, that's incredible! We were so worried that – ” That he would turn back. Dean grimaces, guilt settling heavy on his shoulders. He should have told them way sooner, but he hadn't – he hadn't really been himself. Sam is fidgeting now, shuffling his weight around and looking like he just wants to hug Dean, but knowing he shouldn't. Before Dean can decide if he's ready to let him, Sam seems to remember something else, rushing it out like he just wants it off his chest, “I found the broken Blade when I went to – to get rid of your clothes. But we thought it was supposed to be indestructible. Did you – ?”

Dean remembers that too. Remembers Cain saying how nothing can destroy the Blade. But after he had killed Magnus – he hadn't really been thinking, had been acting on instinct. So he doesn't really know what he can tell Cas and Sam, and just nods without typing anything down. He doesn't know how he did it when he wasn't supposed to be able to. Maybe Cain just couldn't bring himself to do it, couldn't let the thing be completely gone. But he's not really ready to think about what that means. He yawns, rubs at his right arm absently. It's a mixture of numb and aching, like it was electrocuted and his nerves are still trying to heal themselves from it.

“ _Jesus,_ Dean.” Sam is scrubbing both hands over his face, he looks relieved but exhausted. Dean picks up his empty mug and holds it out to him. Sam nods, takes it and then leaves the room. Dean is thirsty anyway, and Sam looks like he needs a moment to himself. That means he's alone with Cas though, and immediately the atmosphere is tense again. Dean rubs at his arm, tries and fails to think of something to make this better. He's still not sure what he even did wrong. Cas beats him to the punch though. He stares at Dean for a moment longer, and then rushes out of the room without a word.

>

Sam sticks close to him for the rest of the day. He looks relaxed, and actually laughs at the face Dean pulls when he's presented with more chicken broth for lunch. “Eat up, and I promise you can have something different for dinner.” Dean only manages about half of it, but Sam doesn't berate him, just forces more horrible tea into Dean's hands. That stuff definitely has to come straight out of their spell supplies.

While he's still careful to keep himself in Dean's line of sight, he doesn't keep as much distance between them anymore. Cas, by contrast, becomes increasingly withdrawn around Dean. While he does come into the room several times to help Sam with something, or to get a book from the library or whatever, he barely looks at Dean and makes sure to keep himself as far away from Dean as possible when he hands him something. Even Sam catches on to it, raising his eyebrows and asking Dean if something's happened as soon as Cas is out of earshot. Dean only shrugs and stares down into his tea miserably. There's still many things he doesn't know about all that went down while he was AWOL. But this feels like something he fucked up himself, and it sucks.

Sam seems to take pity on him again and just lets Dean stew for a while. It's not like Dean can do much. Watching TV still feels like too much to handle, and he's too tired to read anything. Mostly, he lies on the couch and dozes while Sam is puttering around, occasionally filling him in on hunter's news. “Mike tried to single-handedly take on a kelpie last month. I don't think he's ever goona get the hoof print off his ass.”

Not being able to do much means that Dean has way too much time to be alone with his thoughts. He watches Sam, and can't help remember that they didn't exactly part on good terms. Just because stuff happened to Dean in the mean time doesn't mean he should be forgiven this easily. Dean draws in a breath, heaves himself into a sitting position on the couch and grabs the laptop. He should wait with this until he's feeling better, but he doesn't think he'll have the courage to do it then. Writing down what he should be able to say probably means he's taking the coward's way out anyway. But he owes it to Sam to at least try.

He takes the laptop and slowly makes his way over to where Sam is geeking out over some Men of Letter's files he's spread out over the tables. Dean sits down opposite of him and opens the laptop. He pretends he doesn't notice Sam watching him curiously while feigning to still be working on his files. Dean mulls over how to say what he wants, deleting what he's typed several times until he realizes that he's stalling. When he finally turns the laptop for Sam to see, it just reads “you were angry with me”. Sam looks up, then freezes. Dean stares at the tabletop, his left hand curled into a nervous fist, and waits. When Sam finally looks up, Dean still can't look him in the eye. “Dean, you can't honestly expect me to be angry with you right now. Not when you're – ”, he gestures vaguely at Dean, his voice pleading and with a raw edge to it, “not after what you just went through.” Dean sighs, frustrated, turns the laptop back to himself and types, “that doesn't mean you should forgive me.”

Sam reads, and then pushes away from the table, stands up and scrubs a hand over his face, his expression warring between frustration and hurt. Dean sits still and continues to stare at the table. He tries to breathe evenly, but it's hard with how guilt and sadness are making his throat close up and his chest too tight. Sam blows out a breath, turns back to Dean, “Yes, I was angry about what you did. And I had a right to. But Dean, you can't honestly think that even for a second I thought you deserved to have this happen to you.” His voice almost breaks during the last words, and Dean swallows painfully, digs his nails into the palm of his left hand. Sam stands there, breathing heavily, and when it becomes obvious that Dean doesn't know what to reply, he sighs and sits down again, looking exhausted and sad.

“Dean, look. Let's just work on getting you better, okay?” Dean just nods, not trusting his hand to type anything, and it's pathetic, but he still can't quite look at Sam. Sam begins shuffling through his files again, but after a moment shoves them aside, scrubs a hand over his face. “There were moments when I thought – I thought I had lost you for good this time. And there was – to get you back, I did. I did some things.” He stops and looks off the side, his eyes wet and his jaw rigid. Dean looks up and feels worry spread through himself immediately. But this whole conversation has obviously wrecked Sam, and Dean doesn't feel like he can take much more right now either. He types, “we'll figure it out sammy”, and Sam makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, but he smiles watery at Dean. “Yeah. Of course, Dean.”

>

Dean's fever comes back later that evening, and he lets Sam fuss over him for a while, but then shoves at Sam's shoulder insistently when Sam makes to settle on the mattress again. He's already noticed earlier how tired Sam looks, and this mattress is by far not big enough for Sam to be able to sleep comfortably. “Okay, but then Cas is going to stay with you.” Dean grimaces. He bets Cas would rather not be around Dean right now, and he's not really looking forward to the tense silence between them. But Sam either misinterprets Dean's expression for pain, or thinks he's just tired of being coddled. He wets the washcloth he's forced Dean to put on his forehead with cold water again, then claps Dean lightly on the shoulder before he leaves, “Get some sleep man.”

Dean deems it better for everyone involved if he just feigns to have fallen asleep in the time it takes Cas to get here. His plan actually works so well he does fall asleep, and is then startled out of it when there's a loud noise close to his head. He flinches back instinctively, his hand going under his pillow for a knife that isn't there. When he opens his bleary eyes, the first thing he sees is Cas, frozen where he's crouching close to the couch. Cas' eyes are wide in something like shock, and he looks kind of guilty. Which makes no sense. Dean is frowning at him in confusion, and Cas looks away quickly. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and puts Dean's mug back on the floor where's he's apparently toppled it over on accident. The mug is nowhere near his mattress though, so it's kind of weird how Cas managed to bump against it.

Dean decides he's too tired and his head hurts too bad to puzzle over this, so he just lies back down and closes his eyes and hopes that the awkwardness will have gone on its own by the time he wakes up. Cas seems to be making an effort to be extra quiet now, and Dean feels kind of bad for him. It's not like he can say anything though, and getting up to type is completely out of the question. He wouldn't even know what to say. He falls back asleep to the tiny sounds of Cas settling down on the mattress, and then he's on his knees on the ground, surrounded by Magnus' pet werewolves. The ground is cold like it's made of ice, he feels like he's burning with it. He's shaking with it. The wolves growl, they laugh. There's dirt on his face, and he can hear his own ragged breathing screaming in his ears. Distantly, he thinks he's crying.

“Once you touch that darkness,” Magnus says with Abaddon's voice, laying a hand on Dean's forehead and pressing down, “it never goes aw –”

Dean jerks back, startled awake again, and then his heart freezes when he realizes that he's awake and the hand is still on his head. “Dean– ” He said no, he fucking said _no_ , and even if they know his name, he's not gonna let them make him do things again. He shoves the hand away with all the strength he has, sits up and scoots back on the couch as far as he can, his head spinning and his chest rising and falling too quickly. It takes him a moment to even notice Cas, because he's looking around the room, trying to find an escape route. Then his eyes fall on the table with the spread out files, the mattress on the floor, and it registers with him again where he is. By the time he finally looks at him, Cas still hasn't moved an inch from where he's crouching below Dean. He's staring at Dean and looking as scared as Dean still feels.

“Sorry,” Cas says, swallowing, “I'm sorry, I was just. Taking your temperature. You were moaning in your sleep and. And I thought.” He swallows again and looks towards the floor, his expression quickly closing off and the corners of his mouth turned downwards like he's angry about something.

“You should take some more medicine.” He puts it one the couch, careful, opens one of the water bottles and sets it down within easy reach of Dean. He doesn't look at Dean again, and moves back to the mattress as soon as he's finished, eyes downcast and expression tense. He lies down with his back to Dean and doesn't say another word.

>

Dean sleeps fitfully the rest of the night, tense and confused. His fever is better the next day, but eating doesn't go so well. He's too nervous. Charlie is gonna arrive tomorrow morning, and he has no idea what to expect. He knows what he should expect. It's not like he can defend himself. It's not like he's gonna forgive himself. But he wants to at least be able to _say_ he's sorry. His voice is still a no show though when he tries to tell Sam good morning. Sam just shakes his head at him, smiling, “Take it easy dude.” And then he presents Dean with oatmeal for breakfast. Actual fucking oatmeal. Dean groans and lays his head against the backrest of the couch. Sam snickers, “Don't be so dramatic, Dean. You eat this, you get healthy, you can eat trash food again.”

Dean makes a face when he takes the bowl, though mostly it's for Sam's benefit. Food doesn't really taste like much of anything to him right now, and he doesn't feel like eating. He's pretty sure even the sight of a burger would make him wanna retch again. He takes the oatmeal and kind of pokes around in it over the next minutes. The texture reminds him a little too much of the rare times Magnus gave him something else but meat to eat, things he'd eat in the dark without quite knowing what it was. He finally gives up on it, resolving to try again later. Sam eyes him warily from where he's sitting cross-legged on the floor eating his bird food.

Cas was already gone from the room by the time Dean drifted awake out of hazy and disturbing dreams, and Dean hasn't seen him since. Cas obviously told Sam about Dean's episode last night though, because Sam catches Dean frowning at the mattress to his back. He shifts his weight, shovels another spoonful of granola into his mouth. “Cas is,” he hesitates, chews, “his second stunt at being human hasn't really been easy on him. You know, with. You not being there and everything.” Dean snorts bitterly and looks away. It's not like he was there for much of Cas' first time as a human. Sam sighs, “I think it probably just frustrates him that he can't just,” he snaps his fingers, “and heal you.”

Dean doesn't think it was just that. Cas had seemed _angry_ , and he is very pointedly staying away from Dean. And that's understandable, right? It's not like Dean is fun to be around right now. He can't talk for shit, he can't cook, he can't do anything. For days now Dean has kept them busy with things he should be able to do on his own, and all he's given in return is stinking up the place with literal demonic puke and yell at them because he couldn't even control himself. Cas is probably getting cabin fever cooped up here with them. It's not like Dean had given him any reason to feel at home here the last time, and he's been treating him like shit ever since he got back. Of course Cas would wanna get away from Dean as soon as possible.

Dean scowls at the floor, rubs his hand over his chest absently. Sam, creeper that he is, hones in on the movement immediately, “You okay there, Dean?” Dean just shrugs, moves his hand away from the aching spot and curls it into the blanket instead. Cas probably just needs some space. Dean can give him at least that.

>

The rest of the day drags on miserably. Sam vetoes a shower (“You can have a sponge bath Dean, but nothing that might aggravate your fever, be reasonable”), and he gives Dean his laptop to look for hunts, though Dean can tell that Sam is mostly just humoring him. He browses the web for cattle deaths, catches up on news though those are pretty depressing. Apparently the world didn't go less to hell even though he was kind of off the map for a while. Fucking figures.

He finds something that sounds like rugaru, waves Sam over and gives him the laptop, makes a chopping motion with his hand in front of his mouth to indicate what he thinks it is. Sam reads, makes a disgusted face and sighs, “I'm gonna call someone, have them check it out.” When Dean begins to doze off on the couch again, Sam gathers up his stuff and says, “I'll tell Cas to get over here.” Dean frowns at him, tired and confused and feeling like he's missed a step somewhere. Sam just smiles at him and tells him to get some rest, puts the laptop down where Dean can reach it, and walks out.

Dean watches him leave and frowns. Cas very clearly doesn't want to be alone with Dean right now, and Dean is kind of over being babysitted anyway. It's not like they can do anything about his nightmares anyway, and he'd rather not hurt anyone again while he has them. And while he is tired, he's not sure he's gonna be able to sleep, so there's really no use for Cas to be kept awake with Dean tossing and turning on the couch. Cas has made his stance pretty clear with how he's been making himself scarce, but he's also far too kind to just go and say he'd rather not sleep near Dean again. So it's on Dean to give him an out and just make this easier on everyone involved. He sits up and grabs the laptop from the floor.

He's just begun to type when Cas comes into the room, blankets and a pillow stuffed under his arm. Cas looks tense and can't seem to bring himself to look Dean in the eye. He dumps his blankets on the mattress and begins to spread them out, and only when Dean clears his throat awkwardly does he finally turn around and look at him. He stares at Dean like a deer caught in the headlights, and it throws Dean for such an odd reaction that he hesitates for a moment. But then Cas gets this angry cant to his mouth again like he's disappointed with something, and he scowls at the floor, avoiding Dean's eyes. Dean sighs and turns the laptop so that Cas can read, taps against the lid with his fingers to get Cas' attention, “that mattress is shit, go sleep in a bed. I'm fine”. Cas reads, and then his eyes snap back up to Dean. He looks conflicted and strangely guilty.

“Are you –”, he starts, then cuts himself off and scowls at the floor again. “Okay.” Cas stands up stiffly and gathers the blankets back up. He looks angry again and Dean begins to feel like he has no idea anymore what is going on. He tries not to, but he can't help watching the tense line of Cas' back when he leaves the room. He feels guilty and confused and annoyed with himself. He had tried to make this better, and of course had only made it worse, only he has no idea how. Dean lies back down on the couch and glares at the ceiling. This is ridiculous. There has to be something he's missing, something he doesn't know. Probably something that happened to Cas while Dean – while Dean wasn't there. He rubs absently at the aching spot on his chest again. He knows it makes no sense, it's not like he wanted to be gone for almost a year. But he still feels like he's failed Cas and Sam in leaving them. In almost not coming back at all. In turning into something they would have been forced to kill if he hadn't somehow managed to get control back. And now he's still a burden on them.

The pain in his arm flares up again. He winces, tries to lie as still as possible. Sam had dimmed the lights for him again, and while it does help to tone down his fear, he can't help but strain his ears for sounds that he knows aren't there. He tries and fails to find solace in the quiet hum of electricity, and lies in the dimness with a pounding heart.

>

Dean gets up early and sneaks into the shower room before Sam can wake up and criticize him again for being reckless. While the room still makes him a bit nervous, the warm water helps soothe away the tension of the muscles in his back and shoulders. He feels exhausted afterwards, but clean-shaven and dressed in fresh clothes he at least looks a bit less like a wreck. There's nothing to be done about the dark shadows under his eyes or the slight tremor in his right hand when he moves it too much. But he doesn't want Charlie to look at him and – she should be angry with him, not feeling like she has to go easy on him because he's in bad shape. It wouldn't be fair to her.

Since no one else seems to be up yet, he goes straight to the kitchen before they can come and berate him for overexerting himself. He wants to make breakfast, and as long as they're not there while he makes it they can't stop him. The contents of the fridge turn out to be pathetic though. What the fuck have Sam and Cas been feeding themselves with? At least there are some eggs, some milk, and a few bell peppers and tomatoes. It's not much, but he's pretty sure he's not gonna be able to eat any of it himself, so it might just be enough for everyone else. Dean has just laid all the ingredients out on the counter when he realizes that it's not gonna be easy chopping any of it. He can use his right arm a bit better now, but he mostly avoids it whenever he can because it shakes under the slightest strain. But he's determined to get this done on his own. As long as he goes slow he's gonna manage.

He's still working on the peppers, struggling to get the slices even, when there's hurried footsteps in the hallway. Moments later Sam appears at his elbow, still dressed in sleeping clothes and squinting like he just woke up. His voice is a blend of exasperated and worried, and he hovers over Dean like it's all he can do not to drag him away from the counter and force him to sit down. “Dean, you don't need to do that. You should rest. And did you take a shower? I told you not to do that.”

Dean doesn't stop working on the peppers, but he rolls his eyes as dramatically as he can manage. He's not a total invalid. He's chopping vegetables, not fucking trees. When the fuck did Sam become such a control freak? Sam eyes his shaking right hand warily, “Come on Dean, let me help.” Dean stands his ground and only stops to gesture vaguely at the coffee machine behind them. Sam sighs but eventually relents, stomps over and searches around for the coffee in one of the cupboards with uncoordinated movements, like he's not really awake yet. Dean snorts quietly to himself. It fucking sucks that he can't make fun of Sam right now. If they had more peppers he'd totally throw some slices at Sam's head. They might get stuck in his ridiculous hair, and Sam's undignified shrieks at that would make Dean laugh for weeks.

Dean ends up having to wave Sam over again when he figures that cracking eggs with a shaking hand might end up really messily and ruin the whole meal. He flicks some yolk at him when Sam's expression turns a bit too smug. It's worth it to see Sam scowl at him like he thinks Dean is behaving like a ten year old and like it's only because Dean's not up to speed yet that Sam doesn't retaliate by emptying the coffee filter contents over his head. Sam sighs his long-suffering little brother sigh, “Where is Cas anyway? Isn't he up yet?” Dean's grin turns into a confused frown while he readies a pan for the eggs. Why is he suddenly supposed to know where Cas is? Then he realizes Sam is still under the assumption that Cas stayed with Dean and slept in the library. He shrugs in reply, avoiding Sam's eyes. It was better for Cas to have some space from Dean, but Sam might not see it that way. And it was Dean's decision to sleep on his own, anyway. He doesn't want Sam to get angry with Cas about it, when it didn't have anything to do with Cas in the first place.

Sam seems to sense Dean's defensiveness, but for some reason decides to keep needling anyway. “Dean, I think – ”, he starts, but is interrupted by someone else entering the kitchen. Cas is wearing a bedhead and a frown, but at least he's dressed already. He stands in the doorway and stares at them critically, like they're committing a serious crime right in front of him. “What are you doing?” It sounds almost like an accusation, and while Sam raises his eyebrows at Cas in confusion, Dean deems it safer to turn his back to Cas and get started on the tomatoes next. They're not gonna chop themselves after all. “We're, uh. Making omelet”, Sam replies, though it comes out more like a question. It doesn't matter though, because Cas completely ignores him in favor of storming into the kitchen and crowding into Dean from Dean's other side, leaving him sandwiched between Cas and Sam. Which would be annoying enough on its own, because Dean is trying to _work_ here thank you very much, but also because Cas stares at Dean like a creep while looking positively livid. “Uh, Cas – ”, but Cas again completely ignores Sam, interrupting, “Your hand is shaking, Dean. You shouldn't be doing this.”

And that is the motherfucking last straw. Dean lets the knife fall onto the cutting board with a clatter, turns around to Cas and opens his mouth, prepared to yell at him that if Dean wants to make himself useful he his damn well going to and it's none of Cas fucking business. But his voice fails him even now. He heaves in a shuddering breath, and then another, and Cas' expression changes from angry to alarmed. He reaches for Dean, and Dean thinks he can even hear Cas say his name from what sounds like very far away, but behind his eyes he sees the vampire whose face he's mashed in with his bare hands, growling, blood-thirsty, and the voice is Magnus' now, ordering him “ _down_ , I said _down_ , you've been very bad, very bad, you need to be punish– ”

Dean feels like his world moves sideways, and at the same time like he's standing very still. Everything is bright light that hurts his eyes, and only slowly do his surroundings come into view again. There's a whooshing sound in his ears, and some other kind of noise. It takes a moment until his name registers with him, and that it's Sam who's saying it. Pain in his knees is the next thing he becomes aware of, and then he draws in a breath that sends him coughing and he's back.

Back looks like the floor of the kitchen. Sam is crouched down to his right, hand hovering uncertainly near Dean's shoulder. “ – me? Dean? Can you hear me?” Dean breathes and coughs again, but he nods and swats Sam's hands away. He heaves himself up using the counter as support, and by the time he's standing again, shaky and out of breath and vaguely pissed off with everything, Cas is still right where he left him. Cas' hands are curled into fists at his sides, and he looks pale and freaked out. He's no longer looking at Dean but staring determinedly at the floor. Sam is hovering at Dean's other side, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “Dean, you should really –" But then Cas finally looks at Dean, and his eyes are wet and red, and _fuck_. “Dean,” he says, his voice thready and pleading, “Dean, I'm so – ” And then Sam's phone goes off because Charlie is standing in front of their door.

>

Sam starts to ask Dean something but then seems to think better of it and just mumbles a “Be right back,” before he darts out of the kitchen. Dean is still leaning most of his weight on the counter, trying to get his breath back. Cas seems rooted to the spot at Dean's left, but he's silent except for a quiet noise like he's repeatedly swallowing back tears. Dean waits until he feels steady enough to let go of the counter and then turns to clap Cas awkwardly on the shoulder. He jerks his head in the direction of the library, a silent you comin'? Cas has a horribly vulnerable look on his face when he finally turns his head towards Dean, but he nods an affirmative all the same. Dean sighs, but moves to leave the kitchen and go where he can faintly hear Sam and Charlie talk. One drama at a time.

“ – pretty wrecked. Maybe we should wait with this until he's calmed down.” Sam has his back to Dean, his shoulders bowed where he's looming over Charlie's much smaller stature. Charlie is just about to say something in reply, her expression one of worry and understanding, when she catches sight of Dean hovering in the entryway. Her face goes blank, and Sam turns around when he notices it, a look of defeat on his face when he sees Dean. Dean thinks he can feel Cas hovering just a feet behind himself, but he can't move his head to check, can't do anything. He's frozen in place, unable to move forwards or back. “Dean,” Charlie starts, moving towards him, and he flinches, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat, because this is it. But he forces himself to look at her, her pale and tired face, the sling her right arm is in. He did this to her. He –

Charlie reaches out and embraces him with one arm. “I forgive you, Dean,” she says into his chest. Dean lets his breath out in a gasp, pressure building behind his eyes, but he forces out a “No” through the tightness of his throat, shaking his head and trying to withdraw from Charlie's hug. Charlie looks up to him then, her eyes wet but determined, “I know you don't want to forgive yourself. Kind of your move. How's that working out for you, huh?” Dean swallows, feeling his face heat. He carefully raises both his arms to hold her close, sweeps his left hand down Charlie's back because he doesn't trust his right to do it. He doesn't deserve Charlie's understanding of the silent gesture, but he seems to get it all the same. “I know you're sorry. Dean. Prove it by getting better, okay?” Dean heaves in a breath, continues the sweeping motions over her back. He doesn't know if he can make all of this better. But he wants to try.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Have hope, there's going to be a lot of positive development and dealing with issues in the next part. Possibly also some yelling too though. And don't worry, Dean is /not/ going to have to fix everything on his own. But they had to get through this part first. It's called Through The Wilderness for a reason...


End file.
